


Like Coins on His Eyes

by devils_trap



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: ...maybe dub-con/non-con resurrection plots?, M/M, dark magic-y goodness, magical fated heartbeat hearing, major character death for a little while? for a while? w/e, resurrection fic, unapologetic abuse of italics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-22
Updated: 2013-05-22
Packaged: 2017-12-09 04:46:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/770135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott was older this time, but he cried all the same, cried with his boyfriend’s head in his lap, with his boyfriend’s blood all around him, on him, just as choking as it was the first time in his mother’s kitchen, before werewolves and kanimas and Alpha packs. When the worst things they had to face were slick countertops and bullies, asthma attacks and parents leaving or dying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter scoffed in Derek's ear and continued to rummage around in his trunk. “You’re bringing someone back from the dead, Derek, not making a soufflé. There are going to be side-effects.”

When Scott and Stiles were five and six, respectively, Stiles fell off Mrs. McCall’s counter-top and cracked his head open on the hard, unforgiving tile floor. At first, their response was dead silence, the kind of silence experienced between a driver and a frozen deer before the collision, with a horrified inhale and wide, bottomless eyes. The sickening sound of Stiles’ skull against the tile floor was momentarily forgotten for the sight of the hard-won pack of Chips Ahoy cookies, the pack Mrs. McCall had expressly forbidden they get into until after dinner, the pack she had hid at the very top of the counters to keep out of their reach, still hugged protectively against Stiles’ black Batman t-shirt.

Scott frantically looked between the cookies and Stiles’ face, flitting from bright blue packaging to starch white skin, a wobbling lower lip, and big, wet, horrified Bambi eyes.

“Stiles?” he whispered, trying to keep his voice down as to not disturb his mother, who was trying to power-nap away the stress of two doubles in a row and watching two young boy. Strain as he may, Scott couldn’t hear if she was up over the horrified buzzing in his ears, and the quiet, sobbing hiccups coming from Stiles’ mouth. The sound of Stiles falling was probably the loudest thing Scott had ever heard, louder than his parents screaming at each other, louder than when his elderly neighbor ran into her own mailbox two weeks ago. It had been so loud, Scott didn't think he'd ever forget it. “Stiles, are y—oh. Oh, no.”

“Wh-what?” Stiles hiccupped, arms tightening around the cookies after a sob, eyes searching Scott’s face around the tears blurring his vision.

“You’re bl-bleeding.” He inched closer, tears in his own eyes. There was a steadily growing pool of blood surrounding Stiles’ head like a halo, and the scent of it choked Scott up, finally made the tears start falling. He gingerly touched the side of Stiles’ head, whining loudly as Stiles blubbered, and showed Stiles’ the blood.

Stiles screamed.

Mrs. McCall was in the room ten seconds later, hair every which way from sleeping on the couch, eyes wild and frenetic, the sound of a child screaming ratcheting her heart into her throat. She swayed on her feet, gave herself a moment to gasp—another, more selfish moment to thank whoever was listening that it wasn’t her son, and another one after that to reprimand herself—and threw herself to the tile beside the boys.

Her hands hovered over Stiles and then Scott for a moment, before she rapidly turned to Scott and shook his shoulders, tried to make him meet her eyes. They wouldn’t leave Stiles. “Scott. Scott! Scott, are you listening to me?”

“H-huh? Yes, momma!” Scott felt like he was going to be sick, but he nodded vigorously to his mother, looked at her once to prove to her that he heard her before turning back to Stiles.

Stiles was staring at Scott and hyperventilating, shaking like a leaf and bleeding all over his mother’s recently washed white tiles. Stiles, who was older and bleeding and so scared, was staring at Scott and crying, looking at him imploring, like Scott had all the answers to make this go away.

In that moment, Scott knew he had to be strong for them both, because he wasn’t the one bleeding, because Stiles needed him right now, because Scott wasn’t a baby anymore, no matter what Jackson said, and Scott would help his best friend.

Scott tried to get his crying under control, then. He ran the back of his hand under eyes and nose, smearing Stiles’ blood across his face. The smell of Stiles’ blood, already thick in the air, was everywhere then, and if Scott hadn’t just resolved to be strong for the both of them, he would’ve continued on crying. It was on his cheeks, on his forehead, on the bridge of his nose, and the space between his upper lip and his nostrils. The blood was all he could smell.

“Get the phone and call 911 for me, okay? 9-1-1.” Her hands were a blur as they darted between Stiles’ face and the top of his head, shaking slightly for a moment before her formal training kicked in.

“But you said I shouldn—”

“Do it right now, Scott! Right now!”

-

The cool November air was thick with the cloying smell of liquid iron when Stiles was unceremoniously flung off Deucalion’s claws, a rag-doll thrown from the body of a petulant child. He fell with a muted grunt and the deafening squelch of blood and viscera wrongly existing outside of the body, and lay motionless against the sprawling roots of a dying oak tree.

For one long, nauseating moment, the clearing they had been fighting in fell unnaturally silent, all eyes locked on the supine figure ash white in the face and a horrible dark red, so dark it might as well have been black, everywhere else. Most looked upon him in horror, took in the way his limbs fell around him like a marionette with its strings cut, the only movement from the usually animated boy quivering, bloody lips, and the taxed rise, _squelch_ , fall of his chest, as they struggled to keep bile and rage, bile and fear, at bay.

Deucalion laughed, a rich rumble starting in the base of his chest and swelling upward, like the blood steadily rising and dribbling out of Stiles’ own mouth, and it shifted all of the eyes onto him. His entire right arm was covered in Stiles’ blood, already growing cool and tacky along his flesh, his clothes. Some of it was spattered along the front of his torn white t-shirt, along the cavernous wounds carved out of Deucalion’s skin that steadfastly knitted themselves back together.

“Hate to take out your little sidekick, McCall,” he called, voice like quiet thunder, a frothy, fading orange on his teeth. He made a show of wiping his soiled arm along his side, followed the coiled muscle of his forearm down with his eyes, before allowing them to snap back up to Scott, pin him to his spot, like a butterfly about to be preserved.

Scott, who had hardly moved a muscle since Stiles had been impaled—fucking _impaled_ , oh God, Stiles—just moments ago, mouth still agape, a warning, a plea, a scream on the tip of his tongue, arm still extended.

“He wasn’t actually _that_ worthless, that mountain ash trick back there was pretty entertaining,” Deucalion continued, inspecting under his claws absently, like he hadn’t just killed Stiles, like he hadn’t just shoved his fucking _arm_ through Stiles’ chest. His eyes cut back to Scott.

Scott, whose arm had finally dropped, whose mouth had finally shut; whose heart had finally dropped out of his throat, out of his stomach, out of his entire fucking body.

“Could have trained him, y’know? That mountain ash is really a nifty thing to have on your side. He wouldn’t have worked well with us. For one, you killed almost all of my Pack, so there's not really much of an "us" anymore. And for two, well, for two, Stiles wouldn’t go anywhere without you, would he? Can’t go anywhere in this town without hearing about you two, Scott and Stiles, Stiles and Scott. He would’ve been useful, but I just don’t have the time for that, y’know?”

Scott, whose eyes had yet to leave Stiles’ body, whose fist had clenched so tightly his claws had impaled his own palm.

“No hard feelings. He was annoying the fuck out of everyone, anyway.”

Scott, whose vacant eyes finally left the dying body of his best friend of over a decade, his boyfriend of less than a year, and they were hard and dark and merciless as they settled on Deucalion.

Scott, who loses time between charging the remaining member of the Alpha Pack, and finding himself again at Stiles’ side, blood and bits of flesh in his mouth, and a new red glow in his eyes.

His throat was raw by the time he pulled Stiles’ head into his lap. Scott doesn’t even remember himself screaming.

-

When Scott and Stiles were five and six, respectively, Stiles fell off Mrs. McCall’s counter-top and ended up with over a dozen stitches in the back of his head.

Scott held Stiles’ small, sweaty hand the entire ambulance ride over, even though he wasn’t really supposed to get inside of it with his mother, Stiles, and the paramedics. Scott held Stiles’ hand through the numbing procedure Dr. Marks does so she can suture up the wound, and Scott held Stiles’ hand through the stitching itself, telling his best friend watery, tear-filled jokes that fall flat in humor but soar in making Stiles feel better.

Scott held Stiles’ hand through Stiles’ parents wailing in the hospital corridor, and through his own mother apologizing for not keeping a closer eye on them. Scott wanted to tell them it wasn’t her fault, it was theirs for not listening, but that would’ve involved leaving Stiles’ bedside, so he doesn’t.

Scott let go of Stiles’ hand when their parents made up for yelling at each other in their worry, and went with Mrs. Stilinski to the cafeteria to get a quick dinner for the entire group. But only after Scott's own mother squeezed his shoulder and suggested he tag along. Mrs. Stilinski smiled at him softly and held his hand the entire way. Her hand was bigger than his, soft but dry, the nails painted in a pale mint green.

"Stiles is going to be fine, sweetheart," she told him in the elevator, and pushed a wild black curl behind Scott's ear. "Thank you for being so brave and being there for him." She squeezed his hand before kissing the top of it.

The first thing Scott saw in the cafeteria was a big cookie, and Scott begged and pleaded for Mrs. Stilinski to buy it for them for dessert. She bought it, and Scott thanked her profusely for it, even cried on her leg and apologized for Stiles getting hurt.

(“I’m so sorry, Stiles’ mom!” “It wasn’t your fault, sweetheart.” “But I’m still sorry!”)

Once back in the room, Scott resumed his place beside Stiles on his hospital bed and took his hand again.

Stiles doesn’t eat much of the dinner because his stomach was upset from all of the excitement, but he let Scott break the cookie in half and quietly ate it with him.

“It’s good,” he whispered. “Thank you, Scott.” And he squeezed Scott’s hand once, twice, three times, before yawning heavily.

Scott thought it was good, too, but he couldn’t quite taste it over the smell of Stiles’ blood, which still hung around him like a fog.

-

No one tried to pull Scott away from Stiles then, no one even so much as dared. Scott was older this time, but he cried all the same, cried with his boyfriend’s head in his lap, with his boyfriend’s blood all around him, on him, just as choking as it was the first time in his mother’s kitchen, before werewolves and kanimas and Alpha packs. When the worst things they had to face were slick countertops and bullies, asthma attacks and parents leaving or dying.

Scott’s father leaving had been hard. It had felt like a piece of himself had been ripped away and had walked off with a man who had not only taken a piece of his mother as well, but most of their life savings and whatever notion of “family” Scott had had prior, and would ever have.

Scott’s best friend, boyfriend, practically his everything, dying in his arms…there weren’t even words for it. He felt like the once fine china his grandmother owned, ancient and cracked and just barely keeping it together. Like a strong breeze would shatter him completely, perhaps grind him to dust.

For one sudden, all-encompassing moment, Scott yearned for slick countertops and hospital cookies. Yearned for when things were easy and when the wounds could be fixed in a hospital; for when their last-ditch effort at saving the rest of their Pack, and their town, wasn’t a suicide mission that left one fading fast, and another wishing he were, too.

“Hey, buddy. Hey, Stiles,” he whispered as he angled Stiles’ head more towards the trunk of his body. As gingerly as he could, he turned Stiles’ head upward with his free hand, desperately trying to make making eye contact easier on Stiles’ waning form. With his other hand, Scott steadily drew pain from Stiles. Scott would do the hard parts, now, just like he had back in his kitchen. He would be Stiles’ rock, like Stiles’ had been his throughout this whole werewolf extravaganza. What Scott would do when Stiles could no longer be his rock, Scott didn’t know. Didn’t want to think about it, really.

Scott concentrated on being there for his Stiles when he needed it most, and not on how though Stiles was the one literally dying, Scott was the one crumbling inside.

“Did we…” Stiles paused to lick his lips, blood spreading around his mouth like a crude attempt at applying lipstick. His words were thick and syrupy, like the blood in his mouth. Scott wished it wasn’t there, wished it was his or anyone else’s. After a moment’s pause, he croaked brokenly, “…get him?” The light in his eyes was getting fuzzier and fuzzier, and Scott felt his heart clench, wondered idly if it would ever release.

“Yeah. Yeah, buddy. We got him. We got him.” _We got him, but at what cost? Oh God, Stiles,_ Scott thought hysterically, and swallowed down a sob, if not to keep up appearances than to keep from jarring Stiles.

“You okay?” Weakly, Stiles gripped at the stained front of Scott’s shirt and made a lame attempt at checking Scott for wounds.

Scott couldn’t hold down the sob then, but he held back others like it, clenching his jaw until he heard something crack. The pain was good, was something to focus on. Deucalion had had barely any time to react when Scott attacked him, and the Alpha powers gained from Scott's claws and teeth in the bastard's throat had kicked in full force. Kicked in everywhere but where Scott really wanted them to heal. Scott could draw away some of Stiles’ pain, had been since he had reached his body, but it wouldn’t heal him. Nothing could. Not the bite, not a hospital, not the sheer force of Scott’s will.

“Yeah, I’m okay.” Being strong for Stiles was really starting to suck. Scott wanted to rage, wanted to keep this plan from ever being formed, wanted to kill Deucalion all over again, wanted to savor the light going out of that fucker’s eyes. He felt strung too tight, like a cord about to snap, and with a start Scott realized he was shaking from keeping the energy inside.

“Good. Good. I’m glad.” Stiles smiled widely up at Scott, dopily, his teeth coated in a thicker, darker orange foam than the type that had been in Deucalion’s mouth. Same foam, same blood, but this time it wasn’t from a splatter, but from the source: the blood in Stiles’ lungs creeping up his throat. He coughed and gurgled around it, seized up tightly in Scott’s arms, and released a few moments later in tiny, painstaking increments.

“You’re not, though.” _Be strong, be strong, be strong._ He was shaking harder now, could barely see Stiles’ face through his tears. “Stiles, you’re not.”

“S’okay,” he mumbled, and his hands drifted to his sides. “S’okay.”

“No, no it’s not,” Scott choked.

Stiles was fading rapidly then, and Scott was the one seizing up, muscles coiling tighter and tighter.

“Stiles, please.”

“Stay gold, pony boy.”

“Don’t you fucking dare leave me with that, Stiles, oh my God.”

“Fine, fi…I love you, man. Better?”

“So much better. I love you, too.”

“Take care of m’da…d? Plea…”

“I will. I will.”

Scott held onto Stiles long after Stiles had stopped breathing. He sat, head bowed, against the dying oak tree, Stiles’ head still in his lap, and stared at the dirt beside Stiles' slack mouth, his large, empty eyes.

And cried, the smell of Stiles' blood everywhere, like a second skin, like it had permeated his body. Like it had always been there.

-

Scott was snapped out of it moments, minutes, hours later, by Derek’s hand on his shoulder, by Derek’s quiet, grieving voice in his ears. He couldn’t quite make out what Derek said, but Scott wanted to be angry about it. Angry that Derek was still here to have a voice in Scott’s ear, and Stiles didn’t. Angry that Derek’s family had gotten them into this entire mess. Angry that Kate hadn’t just finished them all off, collected the whole set.

“What,” he said, too tired to be anything other than drained.

“You need to let him go,” Derek quietly advised. He looked like hell, with dirt and dried blood all over him, his leather jacket torn to shreds and flapping in the cool November breeze. Scott couldn’t tell whose blood it was. Couldn’t smell anything over Stiles'. “Let me handle it, Scott. You can stop now.”

“I can’t,” rasped Scott. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll take care—” Derek crouched and extended a hand, and recoiled only slightly when Scott snarled and jerked Stiles further into his lap.

“Scott, let me handle this. He’s…he’s gone. Let me take him somewhere he’ll be found, okay?” He tried again, eyes searching the side of Scott’s face while his hand slowly inched towards where Scott’s were on Stiles’ body. “I know what it’s like to lose people you love, Scott, I—”

“Shut up, Derek, shut up!” Scott screamed, and his chest heaved violently. He didn’t want Derek’s pitying words, or another one of Derek’s attempts to bond, to show him _see Scott, we’re totally alike, look at all the things we have in common!_ “It’s not the same, it’s different! It’s _so_ different. This isn’t your family, or Erica, or fucking _Peter_ , it’s _Stiles_! It’s fucking Stiles!”

Derek recoiled again, worse than the first time. “Scott, please.”

“Peter,” Scott whispered, and his eyes shot up to search the area frantically for Peter, desperately looking from tree to tree as if the older werewolf would just pop out. For once, Scott wished Peter was hiding somewhere, watching them, ready to lend his aid with all the strings he delicately attached. Scott would deal with them all, despite not wanting to work with Peter, not wanting anything to do with him. But Peter had come back from the dead before, and if anyone knew how to bring _Stiles_ back from the dead, it's the person who has experience coming back, himself. Scott would take all of the strings attached if Peter would help him, them. “Find me Peter.”

Around them, the remaining members of Derek’s pack slowly came to a halt, Boyd by a large trash bag stuffed full of bloody towels and other assorted things, Isaac beside the remains of a pulverized Alpha. They had been cleaning up the clearing, trying to wash away some of the blood and adequately dispose of the body parts of the Alpha pack while licking their wounds. They looked among each other, growing more and more horrified the longer their eyes met.

“I’ve got it. I can do this. Get me Peter. Find me Peter.” Scott was shaking again, reeling from his revelation. If Peter can come back from the dead, so can Stiles. Why hadn’t they thought of this with Erica? It was fucking _brilliant_.

“Scott, that’s not such a good idea. You can’t meddle in shit like this. Stiles is dead, let him go,” Derek begged. He reached for Scott one more time and managed to connect. But when he shook him, Derek wished he hadn’t. Scott’s eyes were alight with a foggy madness, a quiet, debilitating desperation. He slowly drew his hand back, frown forming on his face, and swallowed hard.

“Isaac?” Derek called. Without bothering to wait for a response, he continued, “Get my phone. I’ve got to call Peter.”

“Derek, but…” Isaac began, but stopped when Derek turned to silence him.

“He’s going to do it anyway. Might as well buffer between the two, so we don’t lose anyone else.” The phone felt heavy and foreign in Derek’s hands. For a moment, Derek contemplated ripping Scott away from Stiles’ body, containing him and delivering Stiles to somewhere his father would find him. Maybe clean him up a bit so he didn’t look so horrible, so it wouldn’t wreck the Sheriff so completely.

He didn’t, though. Instead he sighed heavily and keyed in Peter’s number, listened to the dial tone screech in his ears, and closed his eyes.

Scott wouldn’t be stopped. It was best Derek let this madness run its course. Minimize the damage as much as he could. If this even worked—a part of Derek larger than he’d like to admit selfishly hoped it didn’t, because Derek hadn’t thought of this with, for, Laura, and how fucking cosmically unfair was it that Scott might, _might_ , get Stiles back, but Derek had no one?—having Stiles pull a zombie act on a small town like Beacon Hills was definitely a no-go.

When the phone was picked up, Derek could hear the sound of wind whipping around in the background, like Peter was driving somewhere quickly. Peter had fled a week ago, after the Alpha pack had formally attacked. He had killed one of its members, a sadistic female who counted her chickens before they hatched, and slinked out into the inky night, his eyes glowing red once more. Left them high and dry with an enraged pack of Alphas out for blood, and a ragtag bunch of werewolves (“Plus kick ass humans, Derek, God!” “Shut up, Stiles.”) who had just only started getting their footing again, after the Kanima, after Gerard, after losing Erica.

Derek wasn’t sure if having Peter leave then was such a good thing, because Derek _knew_ Peter, and knew that as long as Peter was alive and away from Derek’s prying eyes, they weren’t truly safe.

Derek didn’t know where Peter was, or where he was going. He had actually resolved never to speak to Peter again, his last living relative or not—until, y’know, Peter came back to exact his revenge for killing him the first time around. But, whatever. A lot of the things Derek planned to do go to shit, what do y’know?

“Ah, sweet nephew! I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Or ever.” Peter’s laugh was like music and nails on a chalkboard at the same time, and Derek screwed his eyes shut even harder. Before the Fire, Peter had been intense and manipulative, and his words had often been cutting and merciless, but he had been stable. He had never actually laid a hand on anyone that Derek could recall, but there were times when it probably would have been preferable to have been hit, rather than to have had to deal with one of Peter's famous one-liners.

Back then, Derek's family chalked it up to Peter just being Peter, a man whose wolf was a little closer to the surface than others'. Derek's mother would soothe him after Peter had said something particularly scathing with a remark like, _It's okay, baby, Peter's just...Peter_ , as if that made up for anything.

Little did they all know that "Peter being Peter" was just the calm before the storm, and all hell would break loose after Peter had time to stew in his issues and instability. All of those scathing words, those carefully worded insults that took you a second to realize _were_ insults, and that they hurt a lot, morphed into full-fledged attacks, Peter's fangs and claws at the ready to do the most damage.

“...be it the Alpha pack had slit your throat, or you just disowned me entirely. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Peter laughed again, delighted at his own voice.

He had missed some of Peter's monologue. Good. Derek took a deep breath and tried desperately to keep his control, though he wasn't quite sure if it frayed badly enough whether he would just go on a rampage or just laugh until he cried, and eventually just gave up.

“Stiles is dead,” he said flatly. “Scott wants your help in bringing him back.”

“Huh,” Peter mumbled disinterestedly, but Derek could hear the car gradually coming to a stop, the audible way Peter's heartbreak kicked up a notch if Derek strained for it. “Freshly dead, or are we talking a few hours old?”

“Peter,” Derek grunted, suddenly bone weary and done with this conversation. Done with this everything, if Derek was honest.

“Okay, okay, get your panties out of that bunch. I need to get my laptop, but I think I have something that’ll help dear misters McCall and Stilinski, trusting that Scottie boy won’t mind getting his hands dirty and dealing with some…side-effects.” Peter played cool and disinterested, but his quick action and his still elevated heartbeat gave away how interested he was in this. Derek didn't want to think about exactly why Peter was so interested. Instead, he listened to a car door being thrown open and then slammed shut, and the sound of Peter's expensive loafers padding delicately along protesting gravel. Peter whistled to himself as he rummaged through what Derek guessed was the trunk of his car.

“Side-effects?” Derek asked. “What do you mean ‘side-effects’?” He spared a look at Scott, who seemed to still be out of it, stuck in the notion that Peter might be able to bring Stiles back. But Scott's face was delicately angled towards Derek, and occasionally his earlobe twitched.

Scott was listening, and Scott was liking what he was hearing. He had even started absentmindedly stroking Stiles' face, blood and dirt smearing lightly along his cheek.

Peter scoffed in Derek's ear and continued to rummage around in his trunk. “You’re bringing someone back from the dead, Derek, not making a soufflé. There are going to be side-effects.”

“Like?” If Stiles came back from the dead...different...with "side-effects", as Peter called them, what would that entail for Derek? Would he have a genuine monster on his hands? His mother had always said, voice sad and eyes lowered, _What's dead should stay dead, Derek. There's a natural order of things._

Derek hoped his mother wasn't watching them right now. Derek hoped that whatever "side-effects" there were with this, if it worked, they were manageable. An elevated love of meats would be fine. Hell, if they had to get Stiles blood to drink, or sacrifice something every month, that was something doable. Because if they weren't? Derek and his Pack were going to have to take down both Stiles and Scott for the good of everyone, at the expense of themselves. There'd be no coming back from killing those two, and Derek surmised that the town wouldn't fare well, either.

“Use your imagination, Derek, come on. I know there’s more to you than that tragic backstory and frowny brows, come _on_.” Peter huffed again, and then made a happy sound. “Found my laptop. I’m going to have to find internet somewhere, but text me McCall’s email address. He’s got to be able to access his email from those smartphones kids are using these days, right? He needs to do some preliminary stuff now. Got that? Oh, and we’ll also need little miss Martin. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Tell McCall the email should be there within half an hour, and I’ll be turning around to help, being the good Samaritan I obviously am.”

Derek hung up the phone without another word and flung it away like it had personally offended him. “Scott—”

“I heard it,” Scott answered, breathless, that manic light still in his eyes. “I heard it all. We’re doing this, we’re bringing him back.” But he wasn't talking to Derek anymore. He had turned back to Stiles' body and was mumbling the words into the still flesh of Stiles' forehead between gentle kisses.

Derek swallowed hard.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Originally, before the Event ("Stiles, for the love of God!" "We're an _Event_ , Scott, it was like a Lifetime moment!"), Scott had thought it to be Allison's.

It wasn’t that Scott was particularly squeamish, he was a werewolf _and_ he worked at a veterinary clinic (and whatever squeamishness he had had before had been thoroughly squashed by those two, thanks), nor was it that he only saw Stiles bleeding when Stiles’ life was either seriously threatened or, well, _ended_ , because let’s face it: ADHD, asthma, and regularly inattentive parents? They’d get hurt and bleed a lot. Knicks here and there, paper cuts and too sharp kitchen knives, bicycles and skateboards, the occasional missed step and wall that “wasn’t there a second ago, I swear to God, man.”

But seeing it in a quantity like that, where the blood pools out wider than Stiles’ body, like a lake and Stiles is a tiny, piss-poor excuse for an island, the air thick with the unmistakably tang of blood, just wrecked Scott. Fried his brain, kept his setting permanently on STILES STILES STILES and there was no altering it until Stiles was back to kick some sense into him.

Scott had always been a little more sensitive when it came to Stiles, even before they started dating. Stiles’ panic attacks could set off asthma attacks in Scott, Stiles being happy in Scott’s proximity could cheer Scott up, Stiles’ being upset and crying made Scott upset, made him want to cry—and Scott was no sympathetic crier, not even with his own mother, but there was something about Stiles. Something about Stiles, just being with him, that made everything different. Everything bad sucked a little bit less, and everything good was brighter, richer.

Being a werewolf was kind of a wrench in it all, made everything hypersensitive and haywire. In a way, Scott could thank lycanthropy for his new relationship with Stiles, because Scott hadn't known that werewolves heard certain heartbeats in their heads nonstop. It was like someone had pushed a microphone up against Stiles' ribcage and broadcasted it into Scott's skull.

Originally, before the Event ("Stiles, for the love of God!" "We're an _Event_ , Scott, it was like a Lifetime moment!"), Scott had thought it to be Allison's. He hadn't been sure if you were supposed to be able to hear your girlfriend’s heartbeat when you were in separate houses, a good chunk of land away from one another, but he wasn’t exactly chomping at the bit to ask Derek that particular question. Mostly because he believed it to be a common occurrence among werewolves in love, but also because he didn't want to ask Derek about it and have him talk shit about how Scott was _still_ going after "that Argent girl."

It was nice, though, Scott wouldn’t even lie about it. Being able to hear Stiles' heartbeat was comforting, like a lullaby that Scott could hear from anywhere if he’d only just tune in.

When things had gotten bad again in the first part of their junior year, Scott would settle down, clear his head, and focus.

And there it’d be, clear as a bell.

Thump. Thump thump. Thump.

It had taken Scott a while to figure out what it was, and then even longer to figure out _whose_ it truly was. He went on for several months believing it was Allison’s, and was wild with the idea that she was it. She was the one for him. He could hear her fucking _heartbeat_ clear across town, didn't that count for something?

The reveal of whose actual heartbeat it was had been ground-breaking for everyone. For Scott and Stiles and their relationship. For the entire town. For Allison.

-

Allison had snuck over one night after the entire fiasco with Gerard, a handful of months before the Alpha Situation (“Stiles, you _need_ to stop naming things!” “Don’t stifle me, Scott, I’m on a roll”), her dark hair a wild sea around her too pale face. She sat crouched on his windowsill, a summer breeze lazily licking at his curtains through his open window, and blinked at him, like she didn’t quite know how she got there. She sat there and considered him, like he was a puzzle she was afraid to solve, scrutinizing him in the darkness until Scott squirmed up into a sitting position.

Eventually she made her way over to his bed, and they talked for a while, about their relationship, what all had transpired, if they ever thought they’d get back together and if they didn’t, could they at least remain friends? The, _her_ heartbeat languidly echoed in Scott’s skull, reverberating at weird intervals. Scott wrote it off as interference, though he couldn’t peg what type. Even with as well as he controlled his wolf, sometimes there were still kinks in things.

She nervously fidgeted with the hem of her jeans for most of the quiet conversation while her eyes—no longer blinking owlishly but _strong,_ self-assured of their purpose, like Allison herself—never left where she pegged Scott to be sitting, but the air grew less tense as they pressed on. The lights were left off, and they would chalk it up to being caught in the moment if the topic was ever brought up, but Allison felt better pouring her heart out without being able to see Scott’s face, and Scott felt better having the advantage of exceptional vision when he was under fire.

Their conversation died down in the early hours of the morning, the sky bleached light blues, purples, and oranges in the distant spaces closest to the ground, like the sun was planning on taking its sweet time to rise. For a second it was as awkward as it had been when she had scaled the side of his house. Allison held herself tensely, like she was preparing for something dangerous, for an attack, and Scott felt his own muscles grow taut in response, body poised to fight, though his mind was confused.

Her heartbeat was…off, to put it lightly. While her heartbeat had always been a little quicker than what Scott would describe as normal for a human, her heart was outright thundering, like she already _was_ under attack.

“I don’t ne—want, I don’t _want_ to be held, but can you just…be there?” she whispered, face angled weirdly as she approximated where Scott’s face was in the dark. She was off by several inches and was actually talking around Scott’s temple, but Scott found it endearing, or as endearing as he could while quietly obsessing over what the fuck was going on inside her ribcage.

He cleared a spot for her beside him on the bed, and slowly she relaxed into the mattress. She stayed above the sheets and curled up under an old quilt instead, but tucked her knees close to Scott’s own, occasionally shifted them to knock against his. Inhaled the scent on Scott’s pillowcase like it comforted her, like maybe she was searching for her scent there, too. If she had the nose Scott did, she’d smell Scott’s shampoo, the conditioner he had to borrow from his mother because he ran out, his aftershave, sweat, and Stiles, who had slept on that pillow two nights ago. He had smushed his face into it when Scott woke him up before sunrise with morning breath and tickling fingers, pleading for the pancakes he suddenly woke up craving, with puppy eyes he couldn’t ignore.

Allison smiled at him, a small smile even compared to those she had tentatively given him only moments ago, but somehow the wattage was different. Brighter. Like she was lighter and contented, and it should be making Scott’s heart soar, when in reality it was somewhere around his throat, because hers was still thundering, and Scott was beginning to panic.

“Are you okay?” he asked, trying to keep some of the alarm out of his voice. His hands quaked with the urge to touch her, soothe her as if she were a spooked horse. Scott had no idea why her heart was going so crazy. If he brought it up outright would that be too abrupt? Would it ruin the carefully constructed, hard-won armistice they had going on?

“Yeah. Yeah. Or at least I’m going to be,” she answered quietly, and her eyes shown with conviction in the darkness. “What about you?”

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” he assured her, and scooted a little closer, knees parting hers a little. Distantly he heard a stutter in the heartbeat and noted the pique of arousal in the air, and had it been, hell, not three months ago, Scott would’ve dropped everything and enmeshed himself in the here and now, in the carefully constructed bridge and the smiling girl in his bed.

But everything had changed in the last few months. _Scott_ had changed.

And the new Scott couldn’t ignore the way the thundering in his ears screeched to a halt and suddenly plummeted, leaving a dull ringing in his ears.

It felt like a few summers ago, when he and Stiles and their parents went to an amusement park, and Stiles had “broken Scott’s rollercoaster cherry.” The climb had been nerve-wracking and Scott had been genuinely afraid of the fall, even with the conscious knowledge that the likelihood of getting injured was exceptionally small. Stiles’ hand in his grip had been nearly purple by the time they reached the top. When they descended, Scott felt his stomach drop and had to shut his eyes, and focus on Stiles’ whoops of joy until the ride stopped.

Back at the start of the ride, Stiles offered apology after apology, and in return Scott offered Stiles a watery assurance that he, they, were fine. Stiles didn’t ride any of the other rollercoasters that day, even when Scott begged him to ride them, because he knew Stiles loved them. He loved anything with a rush like that. Scott just…wasn’t made for that.

Scott hated rollercoasters.

“That’s good, but that—that wasn’t what I meant. Your _heart_ , Allison. Are you okay?”

Confusion etched itself into her face, in the furrow of her brows and the soft bend to her smile. “My heart’s fine, Scott.”

Furiously he shook his head and placed his hand chastely over her heart, protest already spewing from his mouth, when he realized.

The heartbeats didn’t sync up.

“Scott?” she murmured, voice light and assured that this was nothing, that this was just a trick of sleep deprivation, her hand loosely curled around his wrist.

“It’s not your heartbeat,” he marveled, staring absently over her shoulder. Allison’s heart beat proud and true under his palm, and if he focused in on Allison, he could hear it beat steadily in his ears, slightly louder than the beat that usually occupied the back of his skull, while at the same time…lesser. Scott couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but “lesser” was definitely the word for it. Allison’s heartbeat was lesser than the one he usually heard, the one that lulled him to sleep, that pacified him, that inspired fear and protective rage inside of him.

There wasn’t even so much as an arrhythmia he could pick up on in Allison’s heart. The difference between Allison’s and the one now beating painfully slow in his ears was stark, and Scott felt stupid and ignorant for assuming it was Allison’s, and never making a point to _make sure_ it was Allison’s, when the difference was so obvious.

He had been so sure that she was the one for him, that even when their relationship was strained, her heart was his and his was hers, and its melody in his head _proved_ it.

It actually answered a lot, at least in the department of past events. It answered why her heartbeat never truly matched what was going on at any given time. Even at rest, the heartbeat in his ears didn’t match Allison’s, nor would it ever.

The bottom fell out of his stomach again. “Then whose heartbeat is it?”

“Scott, what’s going on?” she asked, and her hand around his wrist tightened. The scent of light arousal was gone, and in its place was the faintly sour scent of confusion and low-level alarm. “What heartbeat? Is this something werewolf-y or Poe or…?”

“If it’s not yours,” he whispered, and found her eyes in the darkness. Allison was still looking in the wrong place. That was no longer as endearing as it had been. It felt like the first nail in a coffin. Or maybe that was the wrong analogy. Maybe it felt like the first nail being ripped out of one. But that didn’t feel right, either, because for all of the emotions he felt for Allison, none of them could be equated to a coffin. But it was…freeing. A nameless, freeing, nauseating feeling. “Whose heartbeat is it?”

“Scott, tell me what’s going on,” commanded Allison, and her voice was louder, the alarm level steadily rising. “ _Whose_ heartbeat?”

Without answering, Scott flew from his bed, uncaring of his state of disrobement. The door being opened filled the room with light, the one his mom always yelled at him to remember the shut off, the one he always forgot. A small noise of protest escaped Scott’s mouth before he shielded his eyes and stomped numbly down the hallway. He came to an unsteady stop outside of his mother’s bedroom, and strained to match her heartbeat with the one in his head.

No dice.

When he turned back around, Allison was in the hallway, uncertainty clouding her features. She gripped lightly at the elbow of her left arm with her right hand as she shifted her weight from foot to foot. “Scott?” she called again. Her eyes caught where Scott had gone and she winced, and she called his name again, this time much more quietly.

“It’s not her heartbeat,” Scott said dumbly. “If it’s not hers, and not _hers_ , is it Stiles’? Unless Stiles wasn’t kidding around when he said that werewolves soulmate imprinted like in _Twilight_. What if I’ve been hearing some stranger’s heartbeat? Is that invasion of privacy?”

Scott snapped back to with Allison’s hands on his shoulders, lightly shaking him. “What’s going on?” she asked, carefully enunciating every word.

“I’ve been hearing a heartbeat,” he began.

“In your head?” she prompted, and waved her hand in front of her, up, down, up, down, _yes, yes, go on_.

“Yeah, in my head. Kind of like white noise? And I thought it was yours…because we…? Y’know? _Us_. But it’s _not_ , Allison. It’s not your heartbeat.” Scott missed the way her face fell, too ensnared in his own thoughts to catch the fragmentation, nor catch the pieces, themselves. “And it’s not my mom’s. So unless Stiles wasn’t playing with me, that means its Stiles’. He’s the only other person that matters. I’ve been hearing Stiles’ heartbeat in my head since I got the Bite.”

The revelation felt _right_ , like getting off a rollercoaster on wobbly legs and touching safe, still ground. It felt warm, like the whiskey they’d sometimes sneak, or like the quiet, private laughs they shared in Scott’s kitchen, the same one Stiles’ slipped and fell in, when Stiles made Scott pancakes, bleary eyed but grinning.

It felt like the sixth grade when Scott woke up with Stiles octopused around him, Scott’s own skin too tight and boxers tented. Like the lightheaded feeling Scott got when he held his breath and willed his erection away, before he managed to worm his way out from under Stiles to escape to the bathroom.

Like the feeling of unadulterated _relief_ Scott experienced when, after years of putting up walls around what he felt for Stiles, something pure and unfiltered slipped through, and Scott allowed himself to bask in how much Scott _felt_ for Stiles.

“Stiles?” Allison whispered, voice shaky.

“Uh huh,” Scott returned, just as quietly, but shaky for a different reason, shaky like a revelation, like a bolt of celestial energy rocked the ground under his feet. What if Stiles _had_ been joking with him, but they were something of that nature anyway? Something _fated_. Not a weird werewolf imprinting on their weird crush’s weird vampire hybrid baby thing, but _something_. Something more than friends.

Allison’s face looked like she had tasted something a little sour. The swallow she gave before opening her mouth, closing it, and opening it again sounded final, like the end of something.

If Scott would’ve noticed it, maybe he would have cared.

“And something’s…wrong? Wrong with Stil…this heartbeat?” she croaked, and her voice was shaky still, shaky like a revelation and she was on the wrong side of the quake.

Something was wrong with Stiles, oh God.

“I guess? From the way you…kind of went on?” she said, and Scott blinked, guessed he had said that aloud. “Do you…need a ride there? I drove and I don’t mind, well, giving you a ride to, uh…check up on him?” The smile on her face was beautiful but sad, like self-inflicted bruises.

-

The car ride there was tense. Tense because Scott was practically vibrating in his seat, getting more and more anxious the closer they got to Stiles’ house—and if this was like the nails being removed from a coffin for Scott, it was the final nail going in for Allison.Tense because Allison had hoped to get back together with Scott, but she couldn’t hold a candle to hearing someone’s heartbeat across town. Tense because she couldn’t begrudge him, them, their happiness, but _God_ did she want to.

Allison gripped the wheel tightly, released, and squeezed again, for each time she wanted to cry, want to mourn a relationship that had long since died and gone cold. It was probably her mind playing tricks on her, but the sound of Scott’s claws ( _claws_ , Scott had lost control of them two streets from Stiles’ house) tapping against the plastic of the car door sounded like Stiles’ name, sounded like laughter, sounded like the quiet sound the pulley makes as their relationship is lowered into the ground.

She parked in front of Stiles’ house and cleared her throat. “I’m guessing it’s Stiles’,” she breathed. “You’re shaking my car.”

“It is—God I’m sorry, Allison— _Stiles_.” Scott whined, honest to God _whined_ , and Allison reared back a little. “Something’s wrong. He’s, I—I don’t smell blood, but he’s not okay. I gotta go in there, okay? Thank you, I’m sorry, but I gotta go.”

If Allison had been in a better place, she would’ve laughed at the attempt Scott made to get out of the car without removing his belt. She wasn’t, and she didn’t. Without a word, she unclipped Scott’s belt with one hand and wrapped the other around her abdomen, and watched with sad eyes as Scott clamored for the Stilinski homestead.

She doesn’t stay.

-

Scott found him in the hallway outside the upstairs bathroom, knees clutched to his chest. For a long second Scott is frozen, conflicting emotions warring inside of him. Stiles’ heart was loud and omnipresent in his head, and he felt immeasurably dumb for assuming it was Allison’s. He had been so blinded by not loving Stiles that way, and loving Allison that much more to make up for it, that it had never crossed his mind to think, _hey, this might not be what I thought it was_.

At the same time, Scott could smell the tears and the anger rolling through the house like a wave as soon as he had stepped onto the porch. His stomach felt wrong, twisted up in knots.

He made his way to Stiles’ side, pressed real close into the warm, shaking body of his best friend, of his…whatever Stiles was, was going to be. And waited. Waited for Stiles to speak. Waited for someone to tell him how he had missed this.

After a long while of silence, punctuated by Scott’s light breathing and Stiles’ uneven sobs, Stiles raised his head, and speaking to the ground, said, “He’s really, really mad at me.”

“Your dad?” Scott asked. When Stiles nodded and didn’t offer anything else, Scott finagled his hand into Stiles’ and squeezed. “Why?”

The laugh Stiles barked out made Scott uneasy. It sounded broken, like all the hinges but one had flown off and the remaining one was just waiting for an excuse. “Because I’m his son? And he can’t stand to be in the same house as me?”

Scott made a broken animal sound, edged closer into Stiles.

“I don’t know? He just came home late and I was up and he just…exploded. Like, like everything had been pent up inside of him and he just couldn’t keep it there anymore. Then he left and I’ve been here.” Furiously Stiles scrubbed at his eyes. “I mean, I understand, after fucking _Matt_ he’s working like a bazillion hours a week, and they’re understaffed and things are seriously fucked in Beacon Hills, and he comes home to me and I just…”

“He didn’t mean it,” Scott assured, because if Scott knew anything, it was how much the Sheriff loved his son. Even after his wife had died, and the Sheriff had trouble looking at Stiles because they were so much alike, the Sheriff loved his son beyond words. “You’ll see. It’ll all be better when he gets home. He’ll apologize, you’ll hug, and he’ll eat the shitty heart-friendly cereal you force on him every morning without a single complaint for at _least_ a month straight.”

Stiles made a noncommittal noise, still scrubbing at his face. He did that for a while until Scott pulled his hands away, soothed him and pushed in real close. “Trust me, trust me, Stiles,” he whispered, and knocked his head against the side of Stiles’ forehead as he rubbed Stiles’ hands between his.

The heartbeat in Scott’s head changed, stuttered and pounded heavily.

“I do,” Stiles returned, eyes screwed shut.

“He’ll come back home, and he’ll be so sorry, Stiles. He didn’t mean it. Trust me.” Scott nuzzled in closer, breathed in Stiles. Past the smell of salt and slowly abating anguish was the smell of Stiles’ shampoo, sweat, and a scent Scott couldn’t really name besides with the word: Stiles. “I’ll be there to pour the milk in his bowl and glare.”

Their hands were then disentangled in order for Stiles to grab onto Scott’s shirt, and from there Stiles made a genuine effort to climb inside of Scott. They were quiet again, but the silence was no longer pained. Stiles was breathing gently along Scott’s throat, and his heartbeat stuttered when Scott didn’t bother to hide a shiver.

“How did you know to come?” asked Stiles.

Scott ran his hands up Stiles’ back, blunted human nails dragging up near the bumps of his spine. He smiled into the side of Stiles’ head when Stiles shivered, himself. “Not all of this werewolf stuff is crap,” he answered. He had intended on leaving it there until Stiles made a protesting noise and shifted in his arms, Stiles’ mouth now closer to Scott’s throat. “I can hear your heartbeat clear across town, dude. _Clear_ across town.”

“I thought that was Allison’s heartbeat?” The caution in his voice made Scott frown, hug Stiles closer to him.

“I was wrong,” murmured Scott. “It’s just yours. All the time, Stiles, in my head.”

Stiles smelt like something different, then. No longer was the scent of pain hanging around Stiles, but a note pleasantly sweet. It made Scott a little dizzy. “You’re wrong a lot,” Stiles said into Scott’s throat. Scott could feel the smile against his throat. “Are you saying that I’m a melody in your head?”

Their shoulders shook with laughter as Scott replied, “That I can’t get out, and oh my God, I’m not singing this song to you.”

A token protest, but Stiles felt, smelt, too comfortable pressed against Scott for it to be anything other than Stiles’ readiness to fight, even when he didn’t mean it. “Sing it to me, Scott. I’m in an emotional state right now and I need consoling. Emotional turmoil. Get consoling.”

“I’ve been consoling. But you don’t smell like emotional turmoil, Stiles. Like…there’s not really a name for it beside _you_. You smell sweet and like your shampoo and sweat. You smell like an emotion, alright, but not ‘turmoil.’ That’s not the word I’d go for.” Scott bit his lip as Stiles pulled back, their faces inches apart. His breath smelled like oranges, and Scott guessed before the Sheriff had come home, Stiles had been eating one of the popsicles the Stilinskis always have in their freezer.

“What word would you go for?” The breathiness of Stiles’ voice made Scott sit up a little straighter, made him swallow hard. Stiles’ big, brown Bambi eyes were slightly hooded as they assessed Scott’s face, and Scott felt his stomach swoon, felt like he might vibrate out of Stiles’ grip, off the floor, and straight out of the house.

Scott never got to say the word he’d go for. He began to say, “I’d go for…” before the space between them is closed, Stiles’ lips mashed against Scott’s own. It wasn’t a particularly magical kiss, they both pressed in with too much pressure, and the angle was wrong at first, but Scott wouldn’t trade it. Not for anything.

They kissed for a while, sometimes lazily and other times furiously, like Scott was apologizing for not noticing _this_ between them sooner, smoothing over the cracks in their relationship caused by their dual bullheadedness; like Stiles was screaming at Scott for distancing them, for keeping this from them, for not having noticed it, either. Stiles’ tongue was curiously soft, and Scott sucked on it lightly, increased the pressure when Stiles moaned brokenly into his mouth.

Eventually they shimmied up from their spot on the hallway floor and made their way into Stiles’ bed. It was a trial of sorts, since both parties refused to let go of each other now that they had finally collided. The bruises wouldn’t matter, not with Scott on his back with Stiles straddled on top of him. He kissed with intent, but didn’t make much movement otherwise, like he wanted, needed, to kiss Scott, but wasn’t capable of more at the moment. Maybe he wasn’t, seeing as he had spent a good chunk of the night crying.

Scott kissed to soothe, then, and lowered Stiles onto the bed, tucking him between the wall and Scott’s own body. He pulled the blankets up around them after shaking off his shoes, and pulled Stiles in close. Quietly Scott reveled in the way they fit together, in Stiles’ bed, in the room they had been having sleepovers in since they met in Pre-K.

Stiles' heartbeat was an even better lullaby up close.

 

 -

 They fell asleep sometime while the sun was rising.

 Scott was there for Stiles, breath warm against the nape of his neck, limbs thrown carelessly over Stiles’ sleep-warm body.

 “Is my dad here?” Stiles asked, voice thick with sleep, but sobering quickly as last night returned to him.

 “Trust me, Stiles. He’s here, and he’s awake. In his room. Let’s go.”

 Stiles does, and they did.

 The sheriff met them in the kitchen less than five minutes after they opened the fridge. He apologized, just like Scott had said, and Scott watched, happy and only slightly smug, as they hugged.

 Scott poured the Sheriff’s milk and the Sheriff sheepishly met Scott’s eyes.

 

-

“Trust me, Stiles, trust me. I’m gonna get you back. Peter—I know, I know you don’t…don’t, neither do I, but we need him to get you back. And then we’re done with this werewolf bullshit, okay? Just me and you after this is all done. Videogames and Netflix marathons and lazy morning sex. I’m gonna date the hell out of you, too. I know you say you hate it but I _know_ you secretly love it. We’ll hold hands and you’ll blush and it’ll be perfect, Stiles. Just trust me to fix this, and don’t hate me. God, don’t hate me when you wake up. I need you to come back, I’m going crazy without you in my head.

“Be mad if you need to, but don’t hate me.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Peter sent me a list of things. We’ll have to stop by Stiles’ room and find that notepad of specialty Wicca shops in the area and go hit those. I don’t wanna leave Stiles alone, though, so—” Helplessly, he turned back to Stiles’ body, and took in the way the moonlight bathing his face exacerbated his stillness. He closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made a few edits to the first and second chapters. Nothing really major, I just changed some words and added in a few lines here and there. If you're reading this story for the first time on 5/22 or after, ignore this. I edited it a little mostly because when I had started writing this, I started it as a fic that would _lead_ to Scott/Stiles, but I had a change of heart in the second chapter and decided to make them together before the thing with the Alphas. Again, it's nothing really noteworthy, but I just figured you might want to know in case you reread it and something was a little different!

Peter emailed Scott less than twenty minutes later. There were only a few sentences of value to it.

It opened with some scathing remarks about the “utter disregard for cleanliness and the culinary arts” showcased in the Oregon Denny’s he had temporarily set up shop in, and went on for several paragraphs. Scott read through Peter’s ramble with a steadily rising irritation, clutching his phone tightly between semi-clawed fingers. Of _course_ Peter would think this was a fucking game. Scott toyed with the thought of disemboweling him after all of this was said and done, and it sounded narrated by Stiles.

> _But enough about that, Scott. I recommend moving the body. Take him back to the Manor. God forbid some hapless wildlife enthusiast stumble upon the scene and wind up a missing person. Before you leave, though, you should get a healthy sample of the dirt he died on. You’re actually pretty lucky he died outside, it makes the spell go a lot easier. You don’t want to know what you have to do if he dies on something like concrete. Make sure to get some of it that’s covered in his blood._
> 
> _I’ll be in touch with you again shortly._

Scott shoved his phone into his pocket before ripping his shirt off. Someone behind him made a questioning noise but Scott ignored it in order to focus on scooping several damp handfuls of dirt into the center of his soiled shirt. Once satisfied with the small pile, he collected the ends of his shirt and tied them together.

“We’ll be back at your house,” Scott said, and hefted Stiles up off the ground as gingerly as he could, makeshift bag in hand. He supported Stiles’ head and legs, and kept Stiles pressed close into his chest. Blood smeared across his pectorals and dripped sluggishly down his abdomen. “We shouldn’t be out in the open for this.”

As Scott set on his way for the Hale house, Derek said something that Scott purposefully missed. He hadn’t needed Derek’s advice when he had first been turned, he hadn’t needed it later with the Kanima and Gerard, and he certainly wouldn’t need it for this.

He walked slowly and carefully for the half hour it took to close the distance between the clearing and the Hale house. Scott spoke to Stiles occasionally, apologizing if he were to jar him, promising he’d fix this and that they’d never have to deal with stuff like this again. He told Stiles that he missed him already, and that not being able to hear his heartbeat was like missing a limb.

He set him down again on the cool boards of the back porch, one of the areas of the house not as irrevocably destroyed by the Fire. Scott leaned back against one of the decrepit walls and sat Stiles’ head in his lap. He stared aimlessly into the distance while he stroked Stiles’ hair, careful not to snag his fingers on a tangle born of clumped dirt and blood.

Under the omnipresent scent of Stiles’ blood were the strong scents of soot and the crisp November air brushing through the undergrowth, lightly perfuming the air with the scent of pine. There was also the scent of _more_ , a subtle power dancing through the treetops and the patchy grass in the backyard. It was like the world around them knew what was going on, and was eager for everything to begin.

Scott waxed poetic about how the world must feel off kilter without Stiles there to balance him, everything, out, while he waited for Peter’s next message.

The second message was infinitely more helpful than the first, and arrived shortly after Scott had to stop talking, unable to bear the way the cracking in his voice and the emotion in his throat butchered his words. It seemed like the gravity of the situation had finally surpassed Peter’s ego and love of the dramatics, as the email was to the point with materials and things to do before they start the spell.

Derek and the rest of his pack stumbled in moments later, after Scott had finished rereading the email twice more. They had changed clothes, but still smelled weakly of cleaning products and old blood. Boyd wordlessly handed Scott a change of clothes after he stood up. They weren’t Scott’s own. By the smell of it, they were a clean pair of Isaac’s. The t-shirt fit but the jeans were a bit long when Scott hastily threw them on.

“Peter emailed me again,” Scott began, pushing the button of the jeans through the hole. The group tensed and Scott paused, licking his lips. “What?”

“You’re still going through with it,” mumbled Isaac, and he dejectedly rubbed his neck.

Suddenly furious, Scott surged forward. All he could see was red, not bright red like in the movies but dark, dark like Stiles’ blood, and the smell of it washed over him, choked him. “Of course I’m going through with it, what’s that supposed to mean?” He forced eye contact and Isaac cowed a little, his mouth firmly set in grief and fear. Scott realized he was taking it too far when his claws broke the skin of Isaac’s wrist and blood warmed his fingertips. His skin felt too tight and clammy, like he was standing too close to an open fire.

With care, he released Isaac and backed up. Isaac eyed him warily, and Scott swallowed hard. “Look, I’m grateful for the clothes and for the end of the whole Alpha Situation, but you all don’t have to be a part of this. Maybe it’s better this way. I’ll—we’ll go somewhere else. We’ll see you tomorrow.”

“You’re not doing this alone, not with—not with Peter, okay?” Derek spoke up, stepping in front of Boyd and Isaac. “I’d rather you do something stu—do _this_ where I can contain the fallout.”

“I’m not naïve,” Scott said, “I know Peter’s not just doing this out of the kindness of his own heart. I know—”

“But do you?” Derek crowded in close, keeping only a sliver of space between his face and Scott’s. He must have brushed his teeth when they changed, because his breath smelled of mint, not of other werewolf blood. For some reason, this made Scott want to laugh. Laugh at how surreal this all felt. Stiles was laying dead on the floor and there Derek’s teeth were, fucking minty fresh. “Do you realize how dangerous this could be? _Will_ be? You’re planning on bringing someone back from the dead, Scott! This isn’t a fucking game!” He flashed red in Scott’s face for the effect, hoping to cow him the way an Alpha would subdue members of its own pack.

Scott wasn’t his pack, though. Scott’s own eyes burned red back at Derek, and he clenched his fists. They stood there tensely for several long, drawn out moments. The betas were at the ready to fight if they needed to, though their faces said they clearly hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

As suddenly as the rage had resurged, it quelled again. Scott’s entire body seemed to slump, and he looked older around the eyes. When their eyes met again, Derek’s were back to their kaleidoscope hazel and Scott’s were dark, sad brown. “I can’t just leave him like this. It’s Stiles,” he whispered. He scrubbed at his face and eyes, trying to ease some of the grime and guilt off his skin. “He wouldn’t leave me and I can’t…I _can’t_ , Derek. So if you’re going to help, help. But if you’re not, then please, stay out of my way.”

The others seemed to sag then, and Scott wondered if he wasn’t the only one who felt ancient, who felt weighed down by all the blood and the loss. The Bite had brought some good things into their lives, but the rewards seemed small compared to the sacrifices and hardships they faced.

“What do we need to get?” Derek asked quietly, his shoulders and resolve squared.

“Peter sent me a list of things. We’ll have to stop by Stiles’ room and find that jumpdrive with the word document of specialty Wicca shops in the area and go hit those. I don’t wanna leave Stiles alone, though, so—” Helplessly, he turned back to Stiles’ body, and took in the way the moonlight bathing his face exacerbated his stillness. He closed his eyes.

The sound of footsteps made him open them, and when he looked up he saw Isaac. The smile he offered Scott was sad but determined. He squeezed Scott’s shoulder and quietly said, “I’ll stay with him, Scott.”

The thought of being separated from Stiles after what had happened choked Scott up, and he opened his mouth to say something, anything, when Isaac squeezed him again and added, “Nothing will happen. _Go_.”

The pressure on his throat lessened, and Scott nodded his head. “Yeah, yeah…just…lemme…” He made a soft broken sound before crouching down to remove Stiles’ keys from his pocket. Before rising, he kissed Stiles on the forehead. The others averted their eyes.

“Okay, let’s go,” Scott mumbled, voice low and rough. He led the way outside, to where he knew the Jeep would be. A silent prayer was sent up that the Sheriff wouldn’t be patrolling the streets Scott had to use, and that none of the remaining policemen under him saw them at the Stilinski residence sans the younger Stilinski.

 

- 

The smell inside of the car was overwhelming. If it took Scott a few tries to center himself and to insert the keys into the ignition, no one said anything. It smelled like Stiles and _them_ , like drives to and from school, like the popcorn and sugary candy they shared when Stiles dragged them an hour out of town to go to a drive-in movie and flailed like an enraged goose when Scott playfully accused him of courting, like kisses stolen in parking lots and driveways and at stop signs and between lights.

Boyd’s voice drew Scott back into himself and allowed him to start the car. “It’s the middle of the night, so I assume what we’re about to do isn’t strictly legal.”

Scott smiled grimly and adjusted the rearview mirror. He made eye contact with Boyd in the backseat. “There’s a reason I said we were gonna ‘hit’ them.” He laughed and put the car in gear while the others snorted.

 

-

After the whole _be the spark_ incident outside of the rave, Stiles had been looking into magic. So far his findings had been hit or miss, but that’s typically how it goes with things you read on the internet. It hadn’t been all for naught, and if it had Stiles would have been _pissed_ because he had spent several hours, days really, looking up this and testing out that.

Most of the things he found were recipes for things that, while he was dubious to call them “potions”, left him feeling like he was in a Potions class at Hogwarts. So far the ones that he’d tried hadn’t require anything like eye of newt, but they called for special herbs, barks, dirts, bloods, and other assorted things, and operated on a time and heat schedule. There weren’t any to make someone fall in love or anything like that (though Stiles was sure some seedy person somewhere had a recipe for that on tap), but after familiarizing himself with the whole process, Stiles whipped together a nifty little concoction out of two different recipes that helped with wolfsbane injuries.

In most cases it stopped the wolfsbane from spreading and healed the wound all together, but in the case of special, high grade and/or genetically altered aconitum, it would buy them time to find an adequate sample to stop the spreading for good.

He had also found several tomes that were either already in his room or in his Amazon wishlist. One was a raggedy old thing held together with tape and Stiles’ belief in the damn thing. Inside of it was a bestiary of sorts much like Peter’s, but this one also included more potion recipes and a section on botany.

Stiles had spent nearly a month transfixed on the botany section. He tried his hand at gardening during the late spring of their sophomore year, during the Calm Before the Storm period between the whole Gerard bit and the Alpha Situation, and found his thumb green. He employed the werewolves to hoe and dig in the dirt in his backyard, cheering them on and bringing them refreshments when they complained about doing his grunt work when his face wasn’t shoved within the book’s pages.

Every now and then the Sheriff would watch them with sad eyes and drink a little more at dinner. They didn’t talk about it.

Stiles also had several planters hanging from the windowsills of the house. One in the kitchen with actual cooking herbs, one in each window of the living room with plain decorative flowers, and one last one on the windowsill in his room. That particular one was crowded with herbs and small flowering plants especially for magic, and they made Scott’s nose itchy every time he came near it. As he entered Stiles’ room, he rubbed absently at his nose and tried to keep from breathing in the scent of Stiles and the plants too deeply.

If the window was closed, the smell would dissipate quickly enough, but Stiles always complained about the _plants liking to smell him_. Scott hadn’t had the heart to close after the first time Stiles explained that whole situation to him, after a bunch of them died. If he closed it now, he’d forget about it and they’d die again, and the first thing Stiles would say after coming back would be: why are my herbs dead?

 

-

“You said you would open the window back up before you left, Scott!” Stiles crowed in the hallway at school one Monday morning, his neck littered with angry marks. When he noticed Scott’s eyes were zeroed on his throat, he made a sound in his throat and tugged his shirt up to cover them up, and then made another loud protesting sound when Scott stared at his marked belly. “Bzz! My eyes are here! Dude, you killed my herbs!”

A girl in the hallway looked at them suspiciously. Stiles shot her a look and shrieked, “I garden!” Briskly she walked away to the sound of Stiles harrumphing in disbelief.

“I forgot! I didn’t think they would **die**!” Scott frowned, throwing his backpack further up his shoulder. Those god damn plants, sheesh. First they take up all of his time when Stiles forced them to garden, then they made Stiles talk his ear off about them, **then** they made his nose itchy during sex and Stiles laughed at him a lot, and now they’re getting in the way of Scott ogling the marks he made and getting a good morning kiss and they’re not even here?

Stiles snapped his fingers in front of Scott’s face. “They’ve got issues, Scott, they’re needy! Like, seriously needy. I killed them and brought them back like three times before I realized this. Magic plants are more high maintenance than Lydia.”

“Wait—brought them back?” Scott threw his arms out. “So they’ll be fine?”

“Yeah, I kind of just wanted you to feel bad about killing them.”

 

-

Apparently plants with magical properties were more attuned to their grower than “normal” plants, and the ones in that planter had a lot of separation anxiety. The ones in the backyard were heartier, but Stiles still made sure to check on them several times a week. When the plant was harvested or dried and sold in a store, the bond was lessened so that practically anyone magically inclined could use them. Still, they worked better if the user grew them themselves. Hence: the gardening.

They weren’t labeled with anything Scott could decipher; the runes Stiles now used for things like this looked like weird lines and shapes to Scott. Scott had told him it looked less conspicuous to have them without labels at all rather than the runes, because Stiles could tell them apart just by sight now, and why make the Sheriff more curious to what they were with the runes, but Stiles had just stuck out his tongue and scooted in real close. He’d said, “Let me have my fun,” into Scott’s neck, and Scott had dropped it completely.

He kind of wished he hadn’t, then, staring at the runes and trying to make heads or tails of them. As per usual, he couldn’t, and he sighed in defeat. On the ride over he had remembered Stiles’ little gardens and had thought maybe they could minimize the stealing from the specialty shops, but that hope quickly faded.

The book Stiles had learned the runes from was a lot younger, and looked to have been printed recently, though it offered no time and place of publication. In it were runes, sigils, and various other symbols meant to heal, or contain, or heighten, or destroy, and if one looked close enough around the places Stiles frequented, you could find them everywhere, in doorframes and in support beams and carved in the floor beneath carpeting.

It said a bit about how working with the runes was easier if you could _pour your belief_ into it and Stiles had preened about that for days. The section it had about creating and mixing runes had frustrated Stiles for a long time, and he would complain about it while scribbling furiously in a spare notebook, the werewolves hoeing in the background.

When he had figured out how to do it, he had shown up late to a Packs Meeting (“There’s more than one pack here, Derek” “ _Fine_ , Packs Meeting” “That sounds even more official than Pack Meeting and you only added an s!”) with wild eyes and an old wooden cigar box in hand.

-

Stiles burst through the door of Derek’s loft, his hair sticking up in places. The smile on his face was a tad worrying, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in a while. “Scott, amor de mi vida, I finally figured out how to make my own runes!” He thrust forth the box as proof. “See?” he said. Then he opened it.

“You opened a wooden box,” Boyd said tonelessly. “Congrats.”

Stiles rolled his eyes while everyone sniggered. “Yes, _I_ can open the box, but can _you_?”

“Duh, it’s an unlocked box.” Dumbly Boyd stared at him, then extended his arm and signaled _gimme_.

“What’s a God to a nonbeliever,” Stiles sighed, and carefully threw the box to Boyd. He watched with his arms crossed as Boyd tried to open the box, and then promptly threw them in the air when Boyd was unable to open it.

Scott looked proud of him, though, and made room for Stiles on the loveseat they had claimed when the Packs Meetings had started. Derek had one time walked in on them adventurously making out and had vowed never to sit there again after threatening them. “How’d you do it?”

“I…don’t really know, but I made one that said it was locked unless it was in my possession, nifty, huh? I made notes about my process. I sure hope they’re legible later. I’m real sleepy now.” The skin of Scott’s neck was warm and smelled good, and Stiles mumbled into it about not moving ever again, preparing to sleep and possibly die there.

A loud crack made Stiles sit up and open his eyes one by one. Isaac was laughing into his sleeve, Scott had his face buried in Stiles’ hair trying not to laugh, Derek was outright laughing, and Boyd looked smug, standing there like fucking Captain Morgan on top of Stiles’ now smashed cigar box.

“Stiles,” Boyd called, “I opened it.”

-

Beneath the runes book on Stiles’ desk was a jump drive Stiles kept about his successful trials with magic. Scott sat down in Stiles’ computer chair and fished it out, and sat there for a second with it in his hands before plugging it into Stiles’ computer. It was password protected, and Scott groaned quietly and had to google the correct spelling of vetivert, an herb often used to prevent theft.

Stiles thought it was clever, Scott thought it was annoying to spell.

Once unlocked, Scott diligently scrolled through the folders before him until he found the word document Stiles kept addresses and numbers on. He keyed the computer to print it up, and went in search of a pair of clothes for Stiles to change into once he came back.

 

-

Breaking into the magic shops was laughably easy once Derek cleared his throat and stopped Boyd and Scott from just busting in the doors. Apparently kind of a delinquent, Derek could pick locks.

After the first one had been opened, the door to a shop that specialized in plants and herbs called Witch’s Grasses, Boyd and Scott stared at him. Derek had just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Stiles was watching Youtube videos one day when I went to ask him something. We ended up watching a bunch of lockpicking ones because it could be useful someday.”

“Was that the day you two were late to the Packs Meeting and kept messing with all the doors in your loft?” Boyd asked, leading the way into the shop.

Derek called an affirmative. “Okay, Scott. What’re we looking for?”

Scott called up the email from Peter and read aloud: “Yew, dried wormwood leafs and wormwood flowers of different plants, a branch of tansy, two sandalwood chips, mandrake roots, dragon’s blood resin, a handful of comphrey leafs, dried sage—”

“That’s a lot of stuff,” Derek said, and headed for the counter near a wall of sectioned off dried herbs, his face scrunched up a little. He lifted a box of plastic baggies and shook them. “Why don’t you just leave your phone open and we’ll each just grab a few lines of stuff?”

Scott nodded, and he and Boyd met him at the wall of herbs. Their faces scrunched up in proximity. Boyd sneezed. “Please write what herb you’ve got, I can’t tell the difference between all of them.”

“Does the spell call for anything other than herbs?” Boyd asked.

“You just wanna get away from all these dried bastards,” Scott moaned.

“My sense of smell is more sensitive and you know it,” Boyd smirked, and crossed his arms triumphantly over his chest. His nose was running and he kept sniffling.

Conceding, Scott nodded. “But, yeah. Grab a mortar and pestle if you can find one, and—”

“You mean one of these?” Boyd called, already across the store again. He held up a medium sized jade mortar and pestle, and clinched them together quietly. “Or one of those?” He flung his arm carefully outward and gestured towards the cabinet of mortars and pestles, some highly decorative, others plain and simple.

“Get a decent sized granite one, we have to grind some of this stuff up. We need other stuff, special chalk, crystals, linen, and candles. Vials, an honest to god cauldron , and other stuff, too—like an…athame?” Scott squinted at his phone. “That’s a knife, judging by the way Peter says ‘soak the blade.’ Those probably won’t be sold here, so once we’ve got all this we can head to another one and check.”

They worked in silence for a while, Boyd eventually wandering back over to help collect herbs. It was efficient and took far less time than if Scott had done it by himself, and he was immensely grateful that they hadn’t outright shunned him, and agreed to help.

“This stuff all seems relatively harmless. I mean—bringing someone back isn’t…it’s not _harmless_ , it’s dangerous, Scott. It really is. But dried herbs and _candles_? Are there ingredients you’re not telling us about?” Derek asked at the end, sitting in the passenger’s seat of the Jeep with a large granite mortar and pestle in his lap, lots of little plastic, herb-filled baggies in its center.

“No,” Scott answered, throwing the Jeep into gear, and let it drop.

 

 - 

Scott was collecting Stiles’ clothes when the third email dinged on his phone. He opened it and began reading with one hand fishing around in Stiles’ sock drawer.

> _This list is separate because the items listed as less than kosher, and should probably be kept private and away from prying eyes until the actual ritual is performed. What this calls for is different from what I needed to come back from the dead, being that I’m a werewolf and I required a unique ritual._
> 
> _Stiles, being what he…is, will require his own unique ritual, and, for it to work, some unsavory things are needed._
> 
> _Needed are as follows:_
> 
>   * _The heart of an animal native to the woods_
>   * _A pint of your blood to be drained during the ritual itself (luckily you’re a werewolf, huh, Scott)_
>   * _More blood, during the ritual itself (less than a pint, to be dripped over the flames of candles and painted on Stiles’ face)_
>   * _Some of Stiles’ blood (to be dripped over the flames of candles and painted on your face)_
>   * _The blood of another magick (it does not say how much, but I do not believe it to be much at all, to be dripped over a single candle)_
>   * _Two bones from the one that killed him (I recommend the femurs, as you need the marrow of one and the other is used to stir)_
>   * _A lock of hair from a witness_
>   * _A treasured metal of the deceased_
> 

> 
> _I will be arriving within the next two hours. Scott, he’s not likely to be back fully for another day at the very least, so you might have to lie and bid yourself time wisely._
> 
> _Be seeing you, and Mister Stilinski._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost all of the plants and herbs mentioned in this chapter have to deal with death, destructive magic, rebirth, and things of that nature. I recommend looking them up if you've ever got a second, they're immensely interesting!
> 
> Also: thank you for reading, and sorry this chapter took so long to get out! Hopefully I'll still be in gear and have another chapter cranked out before the end of the month!


End file.
